Partners in Crime
by KCS
Summary: Eight centuries into the future, Sam and Dean Winchester are still doing what they do best - causing trouble. Written for the spnspringfling exchange on LiveJournal, for the prompt "soulmates."


**Title:** _Partners in Crime_  
**Characters:** Sam &amp; Dean, Castiel POV  
**Word Count**: 1470  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings:** Crack, slight spoilers for S9-10. Takes place far into the future, however.  
**Summary**: Eight centuries into the future, Sam and Dean Winchester are still doing what they do best - causing trouble.  
**A/N:** Written for the **spnspringfling** exchange on LiveJournal, for the prompt _Soulmates_.

* * *

"Sir, we have a problem."

He looks up, weary eyes glad for the reprieve from yet more centuries of paperwork. If this is indeed a typical day in the life of the Most High Being, he can see why his Father departed for places unknown centuries ago, and has not been seen since. Surely there is no earthly or extra-earthly reason why he must record every detail of every living being on every planet in every universe.

Granted, had he not finally wearied of Metatron's treachery some four hundred years ago and finally delivered a well-deserved execution (the most publicized event in Heaven's history for the last millennium), he would at least have a scribe to do the transcription work, he reflects morosely.

"Sir?"

Her lieutenant's first human vessel having perished long ago, Hannah had re-appropriated it for her own use after delivering the woman's soul to Heaven, merely saying that she appreciated the variety of its carnal limitations. This much, he understands, having still preserved Jimmy Novak's for so long.

"What is it, Hannah?"

But now, his lieutenant sighs, arms folded in a very human gesture of exasperation. She merely looks at him pointedly, and raises one eyebrow. "Who else, sir?"

Castiel drops his quill, and resists the extremely human urge to slam his head into the desk. Repeatedly.

* * *

The last time he appeared without warning in the middle of the Bunker, he triggered an Enochian warding sigil that banished him to the outer rim of the Andromeda galaxy four parallel universes removed from theirs, apparently courtesy of a bored Sam Winchester. (Dean had thought it hilarious that it took him nearly two Earth months to sufficiently warp space and time enough to return without destroying half of the cosmos and its entire history in the process.)

Castiel had returned at last on that occasion to find Heaven in an uproar, with Dean Winchester in the middle of negotiating with the current Queen of Hell for the release of John Bonham's soul in exchange for some low-ranking seraph everyone had forgotten was still languishing in the lower levels of Heaven's jail for an offense no one could remember.

Consequently, this time he chooses the far safer method of announcing his arrival by the ringing of the ancient doorbell attached to the Bunker's front door.

Immediately, there is a panicked scuffling inside, and muffled voices which are perfectly audible to his celestial hearing. Seven hundred-eighty-three years have still not increased these two peculiar humans' intelligence to the extent they remember such things; he believes the expression to be, _boys will be boys_.

A moment later, a slightly disheveled Sam Winchester opens the door just enough to peek out at him. "Cas!" he says brightly. "What brings you by today?"

Castiel gives the door a firm push, sending the young man's shoes skidding back across linoleum flooring. Sam gives up and darts away into the house, muttering about trespassing angels, but he does not detect any angelic warding in the vicinity so he takes this as permission to follow.

This strange amalgamation of theirs is half-military Bunker, half-townhouse, culled together from two sets of fond memories each only partially formed. Where there should be a staircase leading down into a dank headquarters, the door of the Bunker now opens into a brightly-lit kitchen with curtained windows, an ancient refrigerator, and flowered wallpaper. This in turn moves into the library and reading room he remembers from the Men of Letters, and in turn the place shifts back and forth in a manner that he supposed makes sense to them, though it does not to anyone else.

Dean Winchester meets him in the reading room, stuffing something under a pile of what looks like duffel bags as he enters. "'Sup, Cas."

"Dean."

Sam seats himself at the nearby table, pops the tab on a can of soda, and glances shiftily at the pile of debris on the floor.

Castiel sighs, and decides he does not want to know.

"Your activities have been monitored and must cease, Dean," he states without preamble, as he has even less patience for prevarication now than he has in years past, now that he spends even less time in human form.

"Activities?" Green eyes blink at him innocently, only aided by the ridiculously childish t-shirt the man is currently wearing.

"Do you really believe you are capable of masking your departure from Heaven itself from the agents whose sole occupation for centuries has been to guard its borders?"

Sam chokes briefly on his soda.

"In blatantly disregarding the strictures of…" He trails off, senses curdling, for a peculiar smell is emanating from the pile of duffels in the corner. It reeks suspiciously of Leviathan blood...and now that he has that in mind, the stains on both the humans' clothing look quite familiar…

Dean glances backward, eyes widening with panic. "Uh…"

Castiel shakes his head, and turns away. "I require plausible deniability, Dean," he sighs wearily. "You are aware that this is the fifteenth offense in the past half-year?"

"What, you gonna serve us an eviction notice or something?"

Behind him, he hears the sound of what is likely a solid boot meeting flesh, followed by a pained yelp.

He pauses outside the room and leans against the wall, content to only listen; he so rarely is permitted this anymore; simply to _be_, to just observe, and to indulge in a little nostalgia for what Had Been in centuries past.

"I told you there was no freakin' way we were gonna get away with it!"

"Well don't look now, Sammy, but we just _did_." Satisfaction evident in his voice, Dean continues with obvious glee. "C'mon, man. I'm goin' crazy here, you know that."

"That doesn't mean we can just go – go hopping into _Purgatory_ any time you feel like taking off on a hunt, Dean!" Sam hisses in return. "That guard almost killed you!"

"Who, Isadriel? Dude, I paid him off like two hundred years ago. That was just an act for His High-and-Mightiness's cameras."

"…Why does that not surprise me."

"No idea. You're the one who's into all that soulmate crap, not me, you should've known I had it under control. Hey, if we can make it into Purgatory, we can cut through it to get into Hell, can't we?"

"No."

"No, we physically can't, or _No, I'm too chicken_?"

"No, because I don't want to piss Cas off more than you have already, Dean."

"Aw, c'mon, Sammy. If he didn't kick us out when we tried to stage a coup last century, he's not gonna flip his lid if we take a day trip to Hell."

"You know how screwed up we are that that sentence actually even makes sense?"

"C'mon, it'll be fun!"

Castiel cringes, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the Winchester-induced headache that is fast approaching.

He makes a mental note to courier a communique to the Queen of Hell, warning her that their resident Uncontrollables could possibly be paying them a visit and also the consequences for harming them if they do. The scales have been balanced between Heaven and Hell for nearly a century now, a truce which harks back to the Beginning of Times; he is not allowing two ridiculous, retired human hunters to tip that balance and begin a war anew simply because they are _bored_.

Sam and Dean Winchester had lived fairly long lives, for hunters (multiple lives, all things considered, given how many times they had been returned to the living from various stages of death), and when their time had finally come, Castiel had been privileged to escort their souls to Heaven in tandem, as it had always been intended, and as he knew they had both always, truly wanted.

And since that day, some seven-plus centuries ago – well, Heaven never knew what hit it.

The current overseer of Paradise suspects The Almighty One joined the Winchesters Twain as soulmates, simply because at least that way, they did not tear apart the cosmos trying to find each other's private afterlives.

Castiel also suspects that somewhere, his Father is simply sitting back and laughing hysterically as the two of them systematically and in perfect synchronicity wreak utter havoc across every corner of Heaven, Hell, and anywhere else they can, just _because_ they can.

God help them all, but eternity is a very long time…


End file.
